


rinse, repeat

by rollingplains



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 01:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1491883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rollingplains/pseuds/rollingplains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a literal sense. (also: you're the lynchpin upon which most of his schemes are hinged on.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	rinse, repeat

**Author's Note:**

> (I had to try writing these two. Second person POV. Un-beta'ed)

"I need a shower," he announces one morning as he comes in. He's looking at you expectantly, as if this is a problem he wants you to solve for him.

You wait for him to explain but as it becomes evident that he has no plans to, you decide to just agree with him. "Yes. You do." He doesn't smell bad, exactly. But he hasn't been smelling fresh either and for some reason, you've tactfully decided not to comment on it. Even though you're fairly certain that if the tables were turned, and you were the one that reeked, it'd take all of two seconds for him to make a crack about it.

"Sorry," he says. "What I meant was, I need a favour."

"No." You don't even look up from your giant file folder. You've been down that road. It never ends well.

"Come on," he prods. "Don't you even want to know what it is?"

"Ok," you say, because you _are_ curious. "Tell me so I can say no again."

He leans over his desk. "The hot water's not working in my apartment. I haven't showered in a week!" he whispers, looking a little too proud.

Your mouth drops open and you throw a pen at him. "That's disgusting."

He dodges it. The pen goes flying over his shoulder, skidding along the floor to rest against the wall behind someone's desk. "Is it? I don't even think you've noticed, thanks to the giant box of wet-naps I got for Christmas from my Nana two years ago."

You sigh. That was your good pen. "I'm glad you're putting those to good use," you grumble. You are a little impressed, however, that he's managed to keep his gross guy smells under control, when he's only relying on moist towelettes. You must have looked skeptical because he throws his hands up in mock defeat.

"Ok, I admit it. I've been using a Lysol wipe from the supply cabinet every couple days."

You make a gagging sound.

"What? It's the bacteria that causes the odors."

You fail to see your role in all this. "So what do you need me for?"

"I don't need you for anything," he says. "It's your shower I'm interested in.

His tone rubs you the wrong way a little. You're the lynchpin upon which most of his schemes are hinged on. It would be nice to be acknowledged as such. "You need me," you correct him, "because someone has to let you in. You don't have a key to my place."

"Like that would stop me. Haven't you seen me kick down a door?"

Not successfully, but, "Why ask me at all then?"

"As a courtesy."

You drop your head on your desk.

"Is that a yes?"

* * *

  
His shift ends after yours today, so you're home and making dinner when a knock sounds at your door. You know it's him, he had texted you about 20 minutes ago to let you know he was coming. But still, you call out from your kitchen. "Friend or foe?"

"Depends on who's asking," comes the reply through the door.

You undo the lock chain (hey, you can't be too safe) and let him in. He's been over before, but you say, "Down the hall, to your right," anyway.

"I hope you wouldn't let someone in just because they said 'friend.' People lie, you know," he says, as he's pulling off his tattered hoodie.

"Thank you for your insight. It's not like I'm a detective or anything."

He smiles adorably at you, and your stomach flips (but just once). "Well, I wanted to make sure you wouldn't open the door for just any guy."

"Right, because there are so many guys out there that sound exactly like you."

"He could have been disguising his voice."

"I checked the peephole."

"He could be disguised like me."

"Go shower," you order, "before you contaminate my place. And take a piss before you go in, not during," you add. You scrubbed your bathtub last week.

He looks like he's about to protest, so you point at your front door. "It's right there, if you don't like it."

He sighs heavily and marches off in the direction of your bathroom.

And he's back out before your pasta even boils. "You're done?" you ask incredulously.

"Yup," he says, pulling on the hoodie he left on your couch on his way in. "It's really just a maintenance shower. The wet-naps can do the rest. See you tomorrow," he calls, over his shoulder.

* * *

   
The next day, you notice he smells like antibacterial wipes and your shampoo.

"Um, who gave you permission to use my Pantene?" you hiss across your desks.

"I thought you knew. I came right after work and it's not like I carry around bottles of Selsun Blue in my car. What tipped you off?"

"You smell like me! Well, me if I took a bath in Triclosan."

"Well, I hope you're getting used to it, because that might not be changing anytime soon."

"Still not fixed?" you ask sympathetically, despite yourself. You have a feeling you'd cross the line from law-abiding to criminal rages yourself had you lost access to hot water for a week. "You want to come over again?"

"But how else am I going to use up Nana's wet wipes?"

You shrug. "Next time you have a porn marathon?"

"So tonight, you're saying," he says, but he's clearly impressed and you hate to admit you're a little bit proud.

"Your choice," you say, and he doesn't respond, clacking away at his computer.

But at the end of the day, he says casually, "So I'll be by around 7?"

* * *

   
You ordered Chinese takeout and you realized they gave you an extra order of beef chow mein by mistake, 10 minutes after the delivery guy's already left.

He's pulling his hoodie on after yet another shower at your place (you've started considering calling his landlady yourself and giving her a piece of your mind), and you surprise yourself when you open your mouth and the usual 'see you tomorrow' doesn't come out. "Want to stick around for dinner?" is what comes out instead. "I think the delivery guy gave me someone else's order. It's more than I can eat," you say, nudging the paper bag over at him.

After the obligatory 'title of your sex tape' comment, he peers in. "Awesome, I love Chinese. But only when I watch Netflix. And only when I get to pick. I know, I drive a hard bargain."

"Do you want free dinner, or not?"

He grins.

("I truly hate your childish exuberance," you tell him later).  


* * *

 

 "Same time same place?" he asks, much later on, and you wonder how he came to expect a shower at your place every other day, and how you came to not mind. You've even stopped asking whether his hot water is working again (you figure he'll tell you when it is) The apartment can get uncomfortably quiet sometimes, and yes, you are one of those people that hang out work people outside of work, and ok, maybe you are pathetic for it. Maybe.

But today is a bit different. "I have to stay behind to finish some paperwork," you say, from behind your mountain of files. Really, it should be self-evident.

"No you don't," he retorts immediately. "It'll still be there tomorrow."

"Yes, but I don't want it to be."

"Want me to stick around and wait for you? Or I could come by tomorrow instead."

You shake your head and fish around in your purse and toss him your keys, which he catches neatly in the air. "Take these. I should be home by eight," and your cheeks flush, because that was uncomfortably domestic and you're suddenly sure everyone's heard you. 

"Of course, sweetheart. I won't wait up," he cracks, and you glare at him.  


* * *

  
You're done early so you go home and remembering your keys are now in the custody of your partner, you hit the buzzer at your apartment lobby. There's no response.

Obviously, the one day he decides to take a long shower is the day that you need him to take a shorter one so he can let you in. You're forced to wait around, but finally someone shows up and you follow them in (and they're giving you a really suspicious look so you have to flash them your badge). When you get to your floor, you realize the door to your apartment is unlocked, and you're all ready to give him a lecture about burglary stats in your neighbourhood, and the shower scene in Psycho, when you see him, wearing only a towel.

"What the hell?" you yell, immediately darting your eyes upwards so you don't have to look directly at him.

"What?" he asks, and you dip your gaze slightly so you can see his face. He's completely unfazed. "You said you weren't going to be home until 8."

Leave it to him to make this your fault. "I finished early!"

"Why didn't you text me?"

"I didn't think I had to alert the authorities when I was heading home!" Your eyes start drifting downwards, and of course, this doesn't escape him either.

"Eyes up here," he says smirking, gesturing to his face and you blush.

"Well fuck me, my partner is topless and standing in front of me in my own living room. Where am I supposed to look?"

He grins at your honesty. "I was just running out to get a shirt from my bag. I'll make sure your virtue remains intact."

You see his towel slipping as he says this, and you lurch forward to hold it in place, making sure to lock your eyes on the ceiling. "You were saying?"

"Um, good teamwork?"

You're standing way too close to him right now. Your eyes are still glued to your terrible textured ceiling and you're concentrating really hard on not looking at him. You're pretty sure your heart is thumping loud enough for the neighbours to hear, and you can hear his shallow breathing.

"Um, maybe I should get dressed," he says, and you nod furiously, about to bolt, when you realize you're still holding on to his towel.

"I got this," he says, re-securing his towel, and you back off, probably still nodding (you don't think you ever stopped).

You pretend to be busy with something in your room when he resurfaces from your bathroom, and you don't respond when he calls out his customary 'bye' from the doorway.  


* * *

  
You're called out to a break and enter the next day. He's already there, sunglasses on, squinting at you in the morning sun as he hands you a coffee. "Thanks," you mumble, still not looking at him. The two of you stare at crime scene specialists for a few minutes in silence.

"You know the balance of power in our partnership has shifted now, right?" he says, after a moment.

You take a really long sip of coffee. "How so?" you ask, playing dumb.

"You saw me in nothing but a towel. To restore balance in our relationship, I need to see you in the same. I'm sorry, it's the only way."

You smack him in the arm.

"Well, I had to try!"

He brings Indian food that night, you'd like to think, as a peace offering.  


* * *

  
A few days later, the two of you are sprawled out, sitting up but just barely, as the credits roll for Bad Boys 2. Your head is resting against the back of the couch, and you roll it over so you can look at him without moving the rest of your body.

"Have they fixed your water yet?" you ask. It's supposed to be a rhetorical question. Of course they haven't. Yes, it's been almost a month already, but he's dropping by on a regular basis to use your shower, so obviously they haven't-

"Yeah, a week ago."

It takes a second for that to sink in. And then another. Why are you not more surprised by this? "So why are you here?"

He's staring at your lips. You lick them self-consciously. He looks away to consider your question. "To bring you terrible takeout? Which, as bad as it is, is not  _nearly_ as bad as your cooking."

Your cooking is fine. Nothing special, but perfectly serviceable. You don't have time to experiment. Most days you're so tired after work that you're happy to sleep on a full stomach. How it got full is not relevant. Means to an end. Anyway, your cooking? Fine. You both know this. "Try again."

"That's the explanation you're getting. Take it or leave it." He starts to trace patterns on the back of your hand with his finger. How many beers has he had? You tilt your head back over to the direction of the empties on your coffee table. More than one, that's for sure.

(You don't, however, move your hand.)


End file.
